Double or Nothing
by MadLuddite
Summary: As the armies of the Bear and Bull retreat from the dam, the new Mojave Protectorate consolidates its hold on Nevada. The Courier must now cast off many of his former allies.
1. Chapter 1

An armored figure, wrapped in a blood red cloth, sat nervously beside Caesar's empty throne, his head held high. He held his plumed helmet under his arm, and in the other, a curved, shiny blade with a wooden handle.

He awaited the return of rest of the scouts. Things were finally running on schedule, now that Caesar was dead. He hated himself for thinking it, but the great Emperor's death was a fortuitous occurrence, at least for the purposes of winning this war.

The sound of footsteps brought him to attention. Three younger men, in their wolf-pelts, ran into the tent.

"Ave, Lucius," said one of them.

"Is everyone prepared?" he asked, snorting.

"Yes," said the scout, nodding quickly.

"The cohorts are in position?"

"All fourteen senior centurions and their cohorts are standing by and awaiting your order."

Lucius walked over to the scout who had spoken, and then turned and walked over to the farthest one.

"How have the enemy reacted?"

"The NCR are still fortified. Their strength is the same as we'd predicted. They probably have maybe three thousand men total, including Rangers. They've brought no further reinforcements in the last week."

"Good."

"Frumentarius Ilus also reports that a large number of chemical-addict raiders are planning on attacking the NCR base at Camp McCarran."

Lucius felt some of his uncertainty fade away.

"You mean the Fiends? The Fiends are going to attack McCarran? Are you sure?"

"Yes. Ilus has infiltrated Vault 3 and heard their leader, Motor Runner, say this."

Lucius sat still and quietly, thinking to himself. The NCR garrison at McCarran should be weak from all the men transferred to the dam and Forlorn Hope. If the raiders take it, they would have nowhere to retreat or regroup.

The scouts stood firm, not letting their nervousness show. One of them gently spoke up.

"Some of the centurions are worried that the NCR's defenses are deceptively weak. Many of them think that the attack looks too easy."

"I don't have any reason to believe that the enemy is planning a repeat of Boulder City. All the major targets are important installations. They couldn't possibly blow them up… and you've carefully scouted all approaches for traps, correct?"

"We've found a small number of mines, and our engineers disabled them. Other than that, the routes to our major targets appear clear. But some officers are worried at the relative lack of NCR movement."

There was nothing to worry about. And if there was, then Lanius could worry about it. It was nice to know that he'd decided to lead from the front, as usual, and that there existed the potential of the big idiot to remove himself from the picture.

"Do not worry," Lucius told the scout. "Tell the centurions not to worry. If the Republic is planning something, we'll deal with it swiftly and flexibly. If the first wave fails, the second wave will react accordingly."

"Yes sir. They will know this."

"Excellent. Proceed immediately."

The scouts nodded, and then left the command tent.

The silence that had hung in the air during the morning was quickly broken. From one side of the enormous concrete structure, there suddenly arose the thunder of thousands of footsteps on the earth. Bloodthirsty cries of excitement and rage filled the air as the might of the Legion surged forward to claim the enormous relic from the rotten complacency of the New California Republic.

High on the towers overlooking either side of the dam were the stalkers, the Centurion's nightmare, who silently watched as their enemy ran toward them. They shouldered their rifles, breathing slowly and peering through their black sunglasses from under their red berets.

They moved their crosshairs over plumed helmets, and then squeezed the triggers, in order to produce the conditions of confusion and fear that allowed them to defeat their foe 4 years ago. The sounds of their bullets were drowned out by the Legionary's screaming, and few noticed that their brutal commanders fell dead.

An older man behind a wall of sandbags, facing the Legion attack, looked through his binoculars at the advancing mob. Sgt. Gorobets had ordered his men to hold their fire until they were only 200 meters away. He knew that they would cross that distance quickly, and hoped that the accurate, consistent fire of the two platoons at this first line of defense, along with that of the ranger squad, would cause them to falter and retreat into their own ranks.

Far ahead, he heard the ragged sound of fire from the Legion. Bullets and buckshot began peppering the NCR cover. He ducked down, then looked over at Ranger Hanlon and nodded.

"Fire, boys," he said. He heard "open fire" from Hanlon, who stood beside him.

His units fired, the air on front of them shredded by lead. Legionaries in the front ranks began dropping quickly, savaged by the intense barrage. Many of the bolder men who had moved ahead of their column were hit with 4 or 5 bullets, and died instantly, trampled underfoot by the men behind them.

Many of the troopers hurriedly emptied the clips of their service rifles, not taking care to preserve ammunition. Many of the green troops fired high, under-estimating their sighting, and pockmarked the dirt a quarter mile away.

Legion fire continued to hit their cover. Gorobets saw one private to the right of him drop his weapon and fall, several bullet holes in his head and neck. He disregarded it and continued to pick out individual Legionaries with his bolt-action rifle. He took a dark pleasure in shooting them in the legs, and then watching other Legionaries kick the wounded ones out of the way. As he recalled seeing his men slowly dying on crosses near Cottonweed Cove, his guilt melted away.

As the Legion ranks closed, their lines became more ragged, with some Legionaries outpacing others, some falling behind, and many falling dead. Their fire was becoming more accurate as they came to about 50 meters. The NCR fire was quieting, due to deaths and people running out of ammunition.

"Grenade!" Shouted one man as he pulled the pin on his fragmentation grenade and threw it toward the Legion. Several other troopers followed.

Legionaries shied away from the thrown explosives, some of them ducking, some of them using wounded comrades as shields. The detonations perforated many of them with shrapnel. One grenade sailed back toward the troopers' cover, thankfully bouncing off of it and exploding harmlessly.

Spears began striking all around Gorobets, oddly silent compared to everything else. Most of them became embedded in the sandbags, but at least one man had his arm pierced, and was unable to lift his rifle. Gorobets got his attention with a gentle kick, his voice drowned out by the noise, and then motioned for him to retreat. The soldier crouched and ran to the second defensive line, but was shot through the back, and fell quickly.

Gorobets made out a Legionary in sunglasses and a wolf hood, armed with a rifle, crouched along the side of the dam. He quickly brought up his own rifle and shot the man in the chest. A howling Decanus next to him suffered a large hole in the face from Hanlon's oversized revolver.

The first Legionaries began to jump over the sandbags. Several of the frightened NCR troopers shot them point-blank. Those who were out of ammunition were themselves shot to death, or were slashed brutally by the Legionary's machetes. The troopers were rapidly killed or forced to retreat.

Gorobets knew that the first line of defense had fallen. He looked to his right. Hanlon was gone. He got up to make a run for the exit, when a bullet hit him in the back of his left thigh.

Spinning around, he observed a large Centurion moving swiftly toward him, holding up a revolver. The man saw his beret.

"You are filth. You and your sneaking brethren will be nothing but food for the crows."

The larger man took the sergeant's rifle and threw it aside, and then grabbed the soldier's neck with thick, calloused fingers. In a split second, Gorobets pulled a steel combat knife from its sheath and stabbed it into the Centurion's neck. The Centurion let go and his hands went to his neck. Gorobets had a brief moment to watch the man stagger around, blood soaking his uniform, before a buckshot load blasted apart the skull of the steadfast 1st Recon sniper.


	2. Chapter 2

"Sir!"

Colonel Moore jogged into the office of General Oliver, who was, as usual, surrounded by his armored goons. Distant gunfire and the thumping of explosions could be heard.

"They've breached the dam! Hundreds of them!"

"I knew they would get inside. There are defensive checkpoints in each room. Let them batter themselves against us," said the General, with an unnerving calmness.

"General, they've found a way through the turbine rooms on the lower levels! Did you prepare defensive lines there?"

Oliver briefly gave a terse look.

"Fuck! You didn't tell me there was a way there from the outside! You've been here for months, Colonel!"

"They probably blasted it open from further down!" She looked back out the doorway, as if expecting enemies to burst in. "What do you want us to do?"

"Send two reserve companies down to the turbine rooms immediately! Tell them to move quickly!"

The radio produced a burst of static, before quieting and revealing panicked voices and sporadic gunfire.

"This is Major Leonard, at Power Plant 2. They're coming out of the basement! They outnumber us at least 3 to 1. Please send reinforcements immediately. I repeat, there are too many of them. We can't hold them." The voices were drowned out by the gunfire and explosions.

"I can't believe this," he said, holding his head.

"We're going to need to push them back out! The further they get, the harder it will be!" shouted the Colonel.

"I know that! Fuck!" He stood up, and picked up his .44 revolver. "We're going to do this ourselves. Rangers!"

Four black-armored men who stood around the General silently listened.

"We're going down there right now. Move out!" He turned to Moore. "You too, Cass. It's now or never."

Colonel Moore nodded, and followed him and his bodyguard out of the office, through the rusty metal tunnels of the dam, toward the sounds of death.

Lucius's plan to take the Dam divided the Legion into a larger wave consisting of 6 recently recruited, green cohorts, each with a core of unproven officers, and a smaller wave of 4 veteran cohorts, with most of its soldiers and officers experienced from the fighting in the east. The second wave still waited on and around Fortification Hill.

Ideally, a large amount of the first wave would die, but would weaken the NCR defenses and exhaust their ammunition. Once they were stuck in, and the NCR forces occupied, the veteran wave would advance and finish them off. The survivors of the first wave would be promoted. If something unexpected happened and drove off or destroyed the first wave, the entire army wouldn't be routed in mass confusion and panic, as it was those years ago.

A lot of planning had gone into this. Lucius even accounted for the fact that the NCR had expected an early-morning attack, and had most of its Dam garrison awake at 4:00 am, and were probably tiring.

All the while, two other cohorts attacked Forlorn Hope and Golf, and two more moved further to penetrate behind NCR lines.

He and several high-ranking Frumentarii observed the battle from the Hill, through binoculars. A trickle of scouts was moving to and from the Dam to give specific reports.

"It looks as though the first wave is prevailing," he said to Vulpes Inculta. "We may have won the day already."

"We should stay here a little while longer, just in case," said the other man.

"I don't see any of our units retreating. I think we may have overestimated our foes. I'll wait a few more minutes at the very most."

"We want the fresh recruits to gain their battle honors."

"If we don't send the veterans in soon, they won't receive any, and they'll be disgruntled."

Lucius went back to his tent, to where four other Praetorian guards were, and poured himself a glass of cold honeyed water. It was unseasonably warm out, even for the Mojave region. He offered some of the water to the guards-something he generally wouldn't do. They politely declined.

He heard the blasts of the Legion's two howitzers firing on the dam, attempting to destroy the First Recon snipers that had likely taken residents on the high towers overlooking the Dam.

Then he heard a different noise. It sounded like the screeching of metal.

"What is that?" he asked to the Praetorians. They were silent, as usual.

"Where is it coming from?" he asked more loudly.

"I think it's coming from outside," said one of them.

He wished that they were useful for something other than fighting. As he took another drought of honeyed water, the screeching sound continued. He hadn't heard a noise like that since that profligate Courier visited a few weeks ago to destroy whatever lay under Fortification Hill. The screeching sound was followed by a series of long, slow thumping noises.

Maybe the Courier hadn't detonated all of his explosives, and some of them were still going off?

He began to hear shouting and gunfire from closer, within the camp. What the hell was going on? He stood up immediately, motioning for the Praetorians to follow him, and ran out of the tent.

He saw Legionaries running off to the right. He hurried to follow them around the command tent. Off in the distance, a huge plume of smoke had risen up into the air, over where the power station was. Blinding needles of light and fiery projectiles shot in every direction, burning holes and blasting craters into the dirt.

Lucius and the Praetorians ducked down. As maniples of Legionaries ran ahead of them, many small groups began fleeing back in terror, some of them missing limbs, and many of them on fire. Lucius looked around and spotted Vulpes Inculta squatting a short distance away. He ran toward him.

"What in the name of Mars is this?" he shouted over the noise.

"I have no idea. We haven't spotted any Rangers in or near the camp in weeks. They must have sappers."

"It was the fucking Courier. I know it! That piece of shit had something to do with this. He was working with the NCR all along!"

"They appear to be very heavily armed!" shouted the Frumentarii leader. "We've never seen even their heavy shock troops use laser weapons like these! Do you want me to move the veteran cohorts back here to fight them?"

"Yes! Yes! Do so immediately, or we risk being trapped between the Dam and the camp!"

Vulpes ran off to deliver the orders to the rest of the Legion. Lucius cursed silently to himself. He knew that something would go wrong. Worse, HE was going to suffer for it instead of Caesar's brainless Monster of the East.

As he steadied his breath, he looked back down in the direction of the power station. About fifty Legionaries and Praetorians were entangled with something amidst the smoke and dust. He heard the sounds of the Praetorian's shotgun-fists and the clatter of assorted Legion firearms, but the sounds of screaming prevailed, even over the louder and less familiar weaponry of the enemy. In about 12 seconds, the Legion troops were dead or silent.

Through the dust and the fading sunlight, Lucius saw a large number of bright lights moving smoothly through the camp, in a wide, sweeping motion, toward him and his Praetorian bodyguards. As they got closer, he got a better view of them. They were bulkier than even Oliver's heavy infantry, their huge squared shoulders about twice as wide as a man. They were also taller, and their arms were much longer, hanging nearly to the ground. Where their hands should have been, huge claws were, and instead of legs, they rolled along on a single, large, rubber wheel. They had no heads, and in their torsos, there were bright flickering images.

He and his bodyguards ducked back behind a low hill as the machines drew closer. Off in the distance, on the other side of the camp, Lucius heard the rumble of nearly two thousand Legion soldiers and Centurions, battle-hardened troops from many hard-fought campaigns, moving in to meet the threat.


	3. Chapter 3

General Oliver limped along with his Veteran Rangers, hurrying back out to the NCR side of the dam. He had minor cuts all over his body, and had suffered what was probably a severed hamstring. Stimpacks were the only reason he was conscious, and Med-X was the only reason he wasn't blinded by pain.

The Legion had, as Moore reported, attacked from both the upper and lower levels. Several pockets of NCR troops were surrounded and slaughtered, or dragged off to slavery or slow, horrible deaths by crucifixion. They breached most of the NCR defensive positions, although determined attacks from the Rangers and heavy shock troops retook many of those positions for a time.

He stepped over dozens of dead or dying soldiers from both armies. The smell of their blood, waste, and vomit in the Nevadan heat was unbearable. The insides of the dam were like a hot metal oven, not meant to accommodate thousands of people running around.

Two of his four Veteran Ranger bodyguards were dead, stabbing and brutalizing Legionaries until their last breaths. The two who remained were injured, many of them with ragged wounds where Legion soldiers had stabbed or shot them at point blank range, in weak points in their armor. Between their knives and their now-empty guns, they had probably killed 20 Legionaries, and injured many more. But it hadn't been enough.

In addition, Moore had disappeared, and most of his heavy troopers had been slaughtered.

A couple NCR platoons had arrived from elsewhere, probably McCarran. Oliver identified Colonel Hsu.

"Colonel," he said. "Thank God you're here. Tell your men to go in there and reinforce mine."

"General," replied Hsu. "McCarran was attacked by the Fiends. I left just before the fighting began."

"I know. Don't worry, before we were forced out of my office, the radio report sounded as if the McCarran garrison was holding them off. But we've got bigger problems here. The Legion has pushed us nearly all the way out of the Dam. Most of our units are badly depleted or non-responsive. We need backup NOW."

"Understood. But there's another problem. 1st Recon has reported that there is activity at Fortification Hill. Earlier, we spotted a large force of Legion soldiers behind the main attacking group. Now, they've retreated back to the camp. We think that they may be holding much of their forces for a second attack."

"Well that's why you've got to get the Legion back to their side of the damn NOW, damnit! Before they can launch it!" He spat off to the side.

Hsu and his men ran off to the dam. Oliver felt a pang of guilt and fear, which overpowered his hatred of the Legion and the cocktail of drugs he was on. He was sending a lot of good men and women to their deaths. He and Kimble had done this many times. But it was a necessity, especially now. He'd prepared for a large, decisive battle, rather than a campaign of raids and counter-raids. This meant that if he failed, the Dam, the Mojave, and all of his credibility would be lost.

Over the wind and the distant gunfire, the General heard a humming sound. Oliver and the Rangers looked up to see the shape of a vertibird flying toward the dam.

"Is that Secret Service?" he asked. "Are we getting additional reinforcements?"

The vertibird flew closer and descended slowly, landing on their side of the dam. Oliver and the Rangers jogged toward it as one of its hatches opened.

"Wait… I don't recognize that aircraft's markings."

Five men climbed out. Three of them wore alien-looking armor, slimmer than that worn by heavy troopers but probably powered. One of them wore medical fatigues, and one of them, an unfamiliar officer's outfit.

"Who are the he- who are you?" asked Oliver to one of the armored men, trying not to appear to hostile, partially out of fear.

The man removed his helmet. Oliver immediately recognized it as the Courier, the elusive "hero" of the Republic.

"Ah, thank God. You're here to help us deal with the Legion?" he said. The Courier nodded. He and the others moved quickly ahead. Oliver decided to abstain from further questions.

A loud shouting came from further ahead. Legionaries began pouring out of the doors from the inside of the dam. NCR soldiers immediately took cover and began firing on them. The Legionaries took up much of the abandoned cover and returned fire. Grenades and spears landed around them, and Oliver ducked down behind some crates.

"Kill the profligates! Kill them all! We've enough prisoners!" shouted a tall Centurion with distinctive mutton-chops.

The Courier and his men waded into the enemy mob. Bullets and spears bounced off their armor harmlessly. The Courier carried a large, wicked-looking weapon with three prongs on the end. He pointed it at the Centurion who had spoken. A blinding green wisp flew out and incinerated the man and the men next to him, turning them into hot green ash. The Courier's bodyguards carried multi-barreled lasers, which scythed through dozens of Legionaries in a few seconds with their bright orange beams.

The crowd of Legion soldiers began to part to avoid the five of them. Small groups of them charged the power armored newcomers to be blasted apart or beaten savagely with their guns. The Courier stabbed one of them with the front of his weapon, and then threw him off the side of the dam. The rest of the Legionaries began to fall back, into oncoming recruits, who were presented with a frightening and unexpected slaughter.

Lanius sneered behind his bronze mask as he watched the battle from his camp. This day, the Bear was to be dealt a mortal wound. A wound from which it would never recover. This was the hardest step, and yet it seemed so easy. Tens of thousands of slaves and a fortune in plunder awaited their conquest.

He didn't like the idea of the two-stage attack, but despite his initial objection, he did realize that the feeble Republican cowards might try something underhanded. Much as he hated to admit it, he'd respected Joshua, and he knew that the Burned Man would have been more careful if he had a second chance.

Even so, he hadn't heard from either Lucius or the other senior centurions for some time. He was certain that the second wave should have attacked by now.

"Ave, Legate."

The huge man turned to a scout, who looked exhausted. His clothing was soaked with blood.

"You have news from Fortification Hill?"

"Legate, everyone… dead." the scout said as he doubled over to breathe, trying his best not to look weak or incapable in front of the now-leader of the Legion.

"What?" asked Lanius, his voice low and threatening.

"The Praetorians… the veteran cohorts… Fortification Hill is destroyed. The veteran… cohorts are scattered."

Lanius grew tired of listening to this senile wastrel. He slowly unsheathed his enormous sword. In one swift motion, he leapt into the air and cut the scout in half. Dozens of men stopped what they were doing and brought their attention to him.

"The leader of the Praetorian Guard is slow and indecisive! He is past his prime!" shouted the Legate, his powerful voice partially muffled by his mask. "Even far from the front lines, he fails in his simple duties! If he lives, I will personally kill him when the battle is over!"

Gradually, more scouts and wounded soldiers entered the Legate's camp. Several reported that things were going badly both at the fort and at the dam. They talked of unstoppable metal killing machines routing the Legion armies.

"Cowards! These are nothing but Oliver's feeble retinue! We have faced them before, and should easily be able to prevail!"

His presence instilled fear into many of the battered Legionaries, and he severed many heads and limbs in order to beat his flagging army into shape. But they kept returning, fleeing from unknown, unthinkable forces that struck more fear into them than he did. Although the Legate himself knew not what it was like to be frightened, he couldn't shake feelings of unease and uncertainty.

"There shall be no retreat from the Bear! Any soldier who flees from them will be killed by my own hand! If you fight, you may lose your lives, but if you retreat, your death will be a certainty!"

A bullet hit his mask, bouncing off. Lanius looked to see a squad of NCR Rangers low on the dark, rocky steps leading to where he was. Lanius and several Praetorians sprinted over to them. Two bullets hit one Praetorian, who collapsed and fell down the steps. Several more hit Lanius's armor, but even match-grade bullets fired from their powerful lever-action carbines did nothing more than dent it. When he and the Praetorians reached them, they slaughtered the interlopers. One of them charged Lanius with a knife. He laughed as his Blade of the East severed the man's spine.

More NCR soldiers entered the camp. The rest of the Legate's Praetorian guard swarmed them, but several men blasted through them and approached the Legate. These men looked different from the rest of them. Their form-fitting armor covered their whole bodies, and it was more robust in appearance than that of Veteran Rangers, but less than that of heavy troopers. Their faces were covered by monstrous masks, with rounded eyes and animal-like snouts, and chords that went around the sides to the backs of their heads.

On seeing that the Legate wasn't going to immediately attack, the lead man took his helmet off.

The man's face. It matched descriptions he'd heard before. This was that troublesome man who had been helping the Republic.

"An envoy of Vegas," he said to the man. "Yet you carry yourself for battle. If so, you cannot truly be of that city of cowards."

"If you think you've got any chance of taking Hoover Dam, you're wrong," he replied, suspiciously calm.

"Many graves in the East are filled with those who said as much, with braver words, not backed by strength. It is Caesar's will this gate to the west bear the flag of the Legion. Caesar's will shall be done."

"Maybe you're willing to listen to reason."

Lanius was disappointed. He thought for a second that this "Courier" would prove a satisfying challenge.

"I see you fight with words, like all beneath the banner of the Bear. Let us hope your skill with weapons proves greater."

The Courier looked at him, as if he was going to say something profound. Then he smiled, rolled his eyes, and raised a strange-looking weapon.

"I'm sick of talking. Let's end this."

Lanius was insulted by this man's mocking tone, and the fact that he humored him with the request for "diplomacy".

He raised his sword and lunged at the Courier.

A searing green light flashed, and suddenly, he was blinded and deafened by a powerful explosion. His frontal armor was vaporized. He hit the ground on his chest, and felt molten metal fusing with his skin on his arms and legs. He tried to scream, but his throat was burned through to his spine. The pain was brief, as the heat had burned his nerves away. The last moments of the Monster of the East were silent, dark, and miserably helpless. He didn't even notice the merciful bullet of the NCR ranger's pistol pierce through the liquefied back of his helmet and into his skull.


	4. Chapter 4

A cold, gentle wind blew around the tower. From the brightly lit inside, it was nearly silent, except for the gentle creaking of metal. It was a blazing needle of light, even among the other buildings of New Vegas, piercing the fog that had settled around the strip. New Vegas itself was the seed of humanity's future, a phoenix rising from the ashes of the world.

A medium-height, thickly built figure stood in the checkered suit of a deceased huckster, looking out the window of the cocktail lounge. He had dark tan skin and wavy brown hair, and his face was lined, despite him only being 34 years old. The last two years had aged him. Worse than the scars on his skin were those in his mind. He felt flush with accomplishment and hope for the future, but at the same time, his memories were a minefield of searing depression and regret.

Part of it was the terrible things that his once-friends had said to him when they learned of the power-play. But most of it was recalling everything he had done in the name of progress. He had to constantly convince himself that his actions had been worth it, that a few innocent deaths, and a large number of less innocent ones, were worth it. After all, there was no viable alternative.

The Courier looked down at the street to the north, in the poorer areas of Freeside. It was darker, with fewer lights and neon signs. Two skinny young children, with pale skin and short, dark hair, were kicking around a bundle of rags, using it as a soccer ball. The streets were cracked and dirty.

On the opposite side, on the Strip, men and women in abraxo-scrubbed suits walked along freshly-paved roads, confidently, if a little nervously. The area was emptier than normal. Following the Second Battle of Hoover Dam, the NCR quickly retreated from the region, taking with it half of the Strip's normal clientele. Wealthy NCR civilians still came and went, many of them relieved by the lack of rowdy troopers, despite efforts by Kimball and Oliver's constituents to paint the new Mojave Protectorate as a traitorous enemy.

The Courier opened an ancient bottle of scotch, poured it into a small glass, and then downed most of it in two rapid gulps. It made him feel easy, taking his attention away from his problems. Every once in a while, he would see an empty whiskey bottle or a single cigarette and think of his companions, those people who had risked their lives to get him where he was now. But they were just stepping stones, tools of people with greater ambition. If they didn't agree with him or his new allegiance, then they were shortsighted fools, and their absence-whether due to death or neglect-should have been welcomed.

It was a month after the battle, the legendary conflict that had been a gambit for so many. Freeside and the Hoover Dam were secured, and although resistance elsewhere would be fierce, it would also be brittle and over quickly.

Following the power vacuum of the retreating NCR, there was a brief and intense period of anarchy around the Mojave. Warlords arose, as they will, and consolidated power over the towns and regions of the desert. Many individuals took revenge on the oppressive armies of the Bear and the Bull, striking at them at every opportunity and knowing that they were too exhausted and depleted from the years of fighting to punish them.

When the Securitrons' control was extended from the Strip and Dam to the rest of the Mojave, new dreams-advances unheard of to nearly everyone born after the bombs dropped-could be realized. Robert House had boasted of his plan to refurbish an old Corvega factory, to build cars for both sale to wealthy people on the Strip and for transportation of supplies and his own personnel. He'd also planned hydroponic farms to create a food surplus, and to manufacture TVs, radios, and personal computers for the people of the Protectorate. The Courier was never sure of how much of it was true. The eccentric industrialist surely kept a lot of things to himself. Among them was just how he was still alive-even after completing the man's century-long gambit, and tying up odds and ends all over the place, he still couldn't know. He was starting to think that House was actually an AI.

And of course, there was the plan to get the McCarran-Strip train to run on time, which was pretty much a summation of House's personality. Most of what the monorail did now was ferry Securitrons to McCarran for maintenance, and then bring back fresh robots, along with spare batteries and supplies.

The Courier usually traveled with two former Enclave soldiers, "Cannibal" Johnson and Judah Kreger, preferring to avoid keeping a robot entourage with him. The Securitrons, although very capable, were still seen as authoritative and oppressive by many people. The Courier didn't want others to think that his fiery independent spirit was extinguished. House had chafed under the idea that he keep former Enclave personnel around, but accepted them on his certainty that the Enclave was destroyed as an organized force and unlikely to ever recover. Occasionally, older folks would see the distinctive bulbous eyes and reptilian snout of their armor and tense up, even though it was painted green and sandy-white to evoke a sense of protection.

The Enclave remnants had little opposition to the Courier working for House. This made sense-he was similarly committed to making the world like it was before the war. The remnants, having supported the genocidal President Richardson 40 years ago, were hardly fazed by anything that House had done to solidify his position, before or after the Second Battle of Hoover Dam. The Courier wasn't sure if House was aware of the Enclave's history; at any rate, he decided not to bring it up.


	5. Chapter 5

Luis Gizmo scratched his belly as he walked slowly, panting heavily, through the Strip. It was very different from Junktown. There were many bright, gaudy casinos, and hookers danced luridly in the street. It was like his little criminal den writ large.

Two of his guards had preceded him, stepping to either side of the door of the Lucky 38 to let him in, secretly wishing he would move faster. A small procession of men followed behind him. Gizmo's small, piggy eyes leered at the large metal machine that stood by the door, wondering why anyone would give it a smiling hillbilly face. He kept silent.

"Welcome, Luis," said the robot in a well-synthesized drawl. "The Courier is expecting you."

He nodded, smiling briefly, and walked into the poorly lit casino. Sitting at a table, smoking a cigarette, there was a tan, pockmarked man of indeterminate age, next to two older gentlemen, playing a card game. The three of them were unarmed and rather calm, considering how much muscle Gizmo had moved into the casino. He observed their game, and couldn't recognize the rules, knowing only that it wasn't poker or blackjack.

"Hello," said the tan man.

"You must be the Courier?" he said, in a deep, gruff voice cultivated by years of cigar smoking.

"Yes," he replied calmly, in a mild Hispanic accent. "Mr. Gizmo, I assume?"

"Yep. Good to meet you." He extended a large hand, and the Courier shook it, grasping his thick, calloused fingers with his own.

"As you know," began the Courier. "The leaders of one of the Strip families have been killed."

"How awful," said the larger man, trying not to sound too deliberately sarcastic.

"The two most important members, Nero and Sal, were murdered in their own office a few months ago," the Courier lamented as he remembered with no real sadness the splatters of Omerta brain on the wall from Cachino's double barreled shotgun. "And their next in line, Cachino, was stabbed by a hooker."

Gizmo felt a mild twinge of nervousness at hearing how treacherous the place was.

"That's… unfortunate. Guess these robots aren't all that good at their jobs, eh? I got good men who'll never let that happen."

"This didn't happen because my Securitrons were inept. Both of these attacks happened from the inside. You better hope your good men are loyal."

"Hey, don't worry about it," he said, throwing up his arms. "My guys have always been my friends."

The Courier nodded, and then walked over to a cabinet, withdrew an old white box with yellowed corners, and opened it up. Six fat, dusty, very old cigars fell out. He offered one to Gizmo, who picked one up. After examining it to make sure it didn't crumble into powder, he had a guard light it, and then inhaled about a fourth of it. He closed his eyes, and then breathed out the hot, mellow smoke.

"This ain't bad," he said. "So tell me, wassup with this place? I hear you got some boss you never see. Sure seems like everyone answers to you."

"My boss is a visionary," said the Courier, putting the cigars away. "The other families on the Strip owe a lot to me."

"I see. Not really my business. So if I'm taking over for these O-mer-tas, is there some specific way you want me to run things?"

"The Omertas were sleazebags. You went to the Gomorrah for the whores and the booze. They were also dangerous as hell. You cheated them or pissed them off, they hunted you down and killed you."

"I know deadbeats. They won't be a problem."

"It gets worse. They killed innocents. They also tried to take over the Strip. It wouldn't have worked, but these men were sharks. I would avoid making the same mistakes that they made."

"Wouldn't dream of it."

"You're from NCR, correct?"

"Yep. I own a casino in Junktown. Been there since my great-grandfather choked to death on iguana kebabs."

"So you're mostly dealing in gambling?"

"We also got a boxing place and we run a little Jet. Business ain't been real good since the cure got spread around 30 years ago, though. Got worse when NCR really started putting their boot up our asses."

"Is that why you want the Gomorrah?"

"Pretty much. The NCR's got these laws against gambling and drug use. They also have lots of men, and now they're all coming home. Since they lost the war, and Kimble and his dickhead General are political pariahs, the new guys are focusing on their fuckin' moral crusade against all the "bad influences of the underworld"."

"The Strip will be a different experience for you. People who come here-they're high-rollers. Securitrons make sure that anyone who comes here has at least two grand in caps on them. Also, you'll get lots more traffic. Your revenue here will make your old place in Junktown look like nothing."

"I like this. I like where this is going," said Gizmo, rubbing his hands together.

"But you always give half of that to us. We allow you to operate here, safe from the oppressive boots of the NCR or the depredations of lawless raiders. And we give you the cream of the gambling crop, no riffraff. So you owe a lot to us as well."

"I have no problem with this whatsoever."

"Good. Send over a few dozen of your men if you want. I'll tell the remaining Omertas that there will be a change in management. Be nice to them; most of them will be your problem now."

"Make a tourniquet, like I showed you."

The large, mohawked Khan looked sternly at the well-mannered man in the clean white scrubs.

"Here, let me do it."

Gannon moved toward him. Regis pulled his arm away, then quickly tried to wrap the gauze around his wound himself, with his other hand. He made a clumsy triple knot, then stared at Gannon again.

"Well, that looks like it'll work."

"I didn't think Nightstalkers would have made it this far north, that quickly," said Regis.

"They're apex predators. They go wherever they want."

"Thanks for the help," he said reluctantly as he walked off to the fields. A younger, blonde woman called to him.

"Arcade! Papa Khan wants to talk to you."

Gannon packed his medical equipment into his bag and headed across the broad, open plains to the large, two-level yurt in the center of the settlement. There were several armed Khan guards on all sides of it. Two of them who guarded the door recognized him, and let him in.

There was a ring of scarred, older men sitting around a large, square wooden table. Their submachine guns were still in their holsters, and they all had at least one knife hanging somewhere. Here and there, there were white-clothed followers advising the Khans.

One man with a thick beard, who sat on a chair made of Brahmin bone, looked up and saw him. He motioned for him to come over and sit.

"You're Mr. Gannon, right?"

"Yes, we briefly met in Red Rock Canyon." He sat on the fur-lined chair next to the Khan leader.

"Tell me about your friend, the Courier."

Couldn't he go five minutes without having to think about him?

"He was a barrel of enigmas. Maybe chamber pot is a better way to describe him. Maybe I'm just a little mad about what he did, after everything we've been through."

"Why did he betray you?"

"He didn't exactly BETRAY me… he just made it seem like HE was going to take over. He kept telling me these bold little plans to remove corruption and reduce taxes and give everyone a say, and etcetera. I should have known he was a liar, like anyone who calls himself a statesman. Then I find out he does it for that ghost in the Lucky 38."

"It doesn't sound like there's anything you could do to stop them."

"The thing is, he never talked about House. On occasion, he would go into his big personal penthouse, and he wouldn't let anyone follow. Apparently they communicated often. None of us ever knew about the extent of their partnership."

The older man took a large bite of his roasted mole rat-leg, flecks of greasy meat falling into his beard. He drank deeply from his clay water-cup.

"I don't think it's that big a deal," he said, eyeing the doctor. "The last four years have taught me that grudges don't help anyone, they just drive you into making stupid decisions."

"I don't have a grudge. I have a legitimate reason to hate the Courier."

"Look. If the Courier didn't do what he did, New Vegas would probably be under Legion control. And they would have no use for you, you know. You'd probably be crucified."

"I have nightmares where Caesar makes me his personal physician, and the idiot blathers about his pseudo-intellectual crap all day, and the only way out is suicide. I'd much rather be crucified."

"Okay. I don't know what that's all about…" he stood up. "Anyway, we-and Benny-basically tried to kill him. In return, he revealed the Legion's plan to use us as cannon fodder, and then as slaves. So we left, instead of dying against the robots."

"He only did it to get you out of the way. He used you, like he used us."

"He got us to leave that shithole in Red Rock Canyon and come here. You don't know it, but we were stagnating there. We had to trade chems with those fuckhead Fiends to survive. That's no way for the Great Khans to grow and prosper as a people. It was a long journey, and we'll miss the Mojave, but this was the best thing to ever happen to us."

Gannon stood up and faced the larger man.

"Those were unintended consequences. WE, the Followers, are the ones who labored-for practically free-to help your clan survive out here. We taught you how to plant and raise crops, and how to pave roads. The hard work. If it wasn't for us…"

Papa Khan looked at him, not blinking or moving at all.

"You don't think we could survive on our own?"

"I-no, that's now what I meant."

The Khan leader sat down, then said nonchalantly, "let it go, man." Gannon breathed out silently.


End file.
